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Chapter no 36 – Kristen

The Friend Zone

When the phone rang, I groped for it on the nightstand. It was the hospital. And it was also 3:57 in the morning. I brushed the hair off my forehead and sat up. โ€œHello?โ€

โ€œKristen.โ€

It was Josh. But it wasnโ€™t. It wasnโ€™t any Josh Iโ€™d ever heard. โ€œKristen, you need to go get Sloan. Brandonโ€™s had a stroke.โ€

I threw off my covers. โ€œWhat? A stroke? What does that mean?โ€

I tumbled out of bed and stumbled around the room, grabbing my bra and jumping into leggings.

He paused. โ€œHeโ€™s brain-dead. Heโ€™s not coming back from this. Itโ€™s over.

Get Sloan.โ€

The line went dead.

I stood in the middle of my dark room. The phone stayed lit for a moment. When the screen went back to black, I was doused in pitch.

The velociraptor roared, and the ground shook as it lunged forward.

As I drove to Sloanโ€™s, I had the surreal, almost out-of-body realization that I was about to tell my best friend the worst news of her life. That the moment she answered that door, I was going to break her heart and she would never be the same.

My altered state allowed me to process this in a compartmentalized way. I knew that I wouldnโ€™t feel the painful moment when it happened, but that Iโ€™d put it into a little box and take it out and look at it often for the rest of

my life.

* * *

I watched Sloan die inside that night.

They called it a catastrophic stroke. A blood clot moved from the wounds in his leg up to his brain. It had probably happened while Josh sat with him. It was silent and final, and there was nothing anyone could have done.

Josh was right. Brandon was gone.

Three days after the stroke, an ethics committee made up of Brandonโ€™s doctors, an organization that coordinated organ donations, and a grief counselor called the family in for an 11:00 a.m. meeting at the hospital. I sat outside the conference room, bouncing my knee, waiting for Sloan to come out.

I hadnโ€™t left her side once since the stroke. Every night I slept in the chair next to her by Brandonโ€™s bedside. Only now he wasnโ€™t healing in his coma.

He was brain-dead.

Josh hadnโ€™t been back to the hospital since Brandonโ€™s diagnosis. He wouldnโ€™t answer my calls.

The shift was strange. Our text thread went from dozens of unanswered texts from him, begging me to talk to him, to dozens of unanswered texts from me, begging him to talk to me. I wanted to know he was okay.

His silence told me he wasnโ€™t.

I wore his sweatshirt today. Iโ€™d never wear it when I knew he might see it. I didnโ€™t want to encourage him. But based on his absence over the last three days, I didnโ€™t think I had to worry. And I needed to feel him wrapped around my body today. I needed to smell him in the fabric.

I just neededย him.

This meeting wasnโ€™t going to be easy on Sloan. It was about the next steps.

The door to the conference room opened up, and Brandonโ€™s mom came out, speaking to his dad in tearful Spanish.

Sloan walked out of the meeting behind them, and I led her immediately into an empty waiting room.

Sloan was a zombie. Sheโ€™d died three days ago when Brandon did. The light was gone from her eyes. Her legs walked, her eyelids blinked, but she was vacant.

โ€œWhat did they say?โ€ I asked, sitting her down on one of the cushioned chairs next to me.

She spoke wearily, her eyes rimmed a permanent shade of red. โ€œThey say we need to take him off of life support. That his body is deteriorating.โ€

The wail of Brandonโ€™s mom came down the hallway. It had become a sound we knew all too well. She broke down at random. Everyone did. Well, everyone except for me. I was void of emotion while my predator and I shared space. Instead of feeling pain at Sloanโ€™s suffering, I spiraled further into my OCD. I slept less. I moved more. I dove deeper into my rituals.

And nothing helped.

Sloan didnโ€™t react to the sound of grief down the hall. โ€œHis brain isnโ€™t making hormones anymore or controlling any of his bodily functions. The medications heโ€™s on to maintain his blood pressure and body temperature are damaging his organs. They said if we want to donate them, we have to do it soon.โ€

โ€œOkay,โ€ I said, pulling tissues from a box and shoving them into her hands. โ€œWhen are they doing it?โ€

She spoke to the room, to someplace behind me. She didnโ€™t look at me. โ€œTheyโ€™re not.โ€

I stared at her. โ€œWhat do you mean theyโ€™re not?โ€

She blinked, her eyelids closing mechanically. โ€œHis parents donโ€™t want to take him off life support. Theyโ€™re praying for a miracle. Theyโ€™re really religious. They think he rebounded once and heโ€™ll rebound again.โ€

Her eyes focused on me, tears welled, threatening to fall. โ€œItโ€™s going to all be for nothing, Kristen. Heโ€™s an organ donor. Heโ€™d want that. Heโ€™s going to rot in that room and heโ€™s going to die for nothing and I have no say in any of it.โ€

The tears spilled down her face, but she didnโ€™t sob. They just streamed, like water from a leaky hose.

I gaped at her. โ€œButโ€ฆbutย why? Didnโ€™t he have a will? What the fuck?โ€

She shook her head. โ€œWe talked about it, but the wedding was so close we just decided to wait. I have no say. At all.โ€

The reality suddenly rolled out before me. It wouldnโ€™t just be this. It

would be everything. His life insurance policy, his benefits, his portion of the house, his belongingsโ€”not hers. She would get nothing.

Not even a vote.

She went on in her daze. โ€œI donโ€™t know how to convince them. The insurance wonโ€™t cover his stay much longer, so theyโ€™ll be forced to make a decision at some point. But it will cover it long enough for his organs to fail.โ€

My brain grasped at a solution. โ€œClaudia. She might be able to convince them.โ€

She hadnโ€™t been able to make the meeting. And she would side with Sloanโ€”I knew she would. She had influence on her parents.

โ€œMaybe Josh too,โ€ I continued. โ€œThey like him. They might listen to him.โ€ I stood.

She looked up at me, a tear dripping off her chin and landing on her thigh. โ€œWhere are you going?โ€

โ€œTo find Josh.โ€

* * *

I went to the station first, but Josh wasnโ€™t there. I found him at home.

He opened the door after letting me pound on it for almost five minutes.

His truck was in the carport. I knew he was here.

He pulled the door open and walked back inside without looking at me or saying a word. I followed him in, and he dropped onto a sofa Iโ€™d never seen before.

His face was scruffy. Iโ€™d never seen him anything but clean-shaven. Not even in pictures. He had bags under his eyes. Heโ€™d aged ten years in three days.

The apartment was a mess. The boxes were gone. It looked like he had finally unpacked. But laundry was piled up in a basket so full it spilled out onto the floor. Empty food containers littered the kitchen countertops. The coffee table was full of empty beer bottles. His bed was unmade. The place smelled stagnant and dank.

A vicious urge to take care of him took hold. The velociraptor tapped its talon on the floor. Josh wasnโ€™t okay.

Nobody was okay.

And that was what madeย meย not okay. โ€œHey,โ€ I said, standing in front of him.

He didnโ€™t look at me. โ€œOh, so youโ€™re talking to me now,โ€ he said bitterly, taking a long pull on a beer. โ€œGreat. What do you want?โ€

The coldness of his tone took me aback, but I kept my face still. โ€œYou havenโ€™t been to the hospital.โ€

His bloodshot eyes dragged up to mine. โ€œWhy would I? Heโ€™s not there.

Heโ€™s fucking gone.โ€ I stared at him.

He shook his head and looked away from me. โ€œSo what do you want? You wanted to see if Iโ€™m okay? Iโ€™m not fucking okay. My best friend is brain-dead. The woman I love wonโ€™t even fucking speak to me.โ€

He picked up a beer cap from the coffee table and threw it hard across the room. My OCD winced.

โ€œIโ€™m doing this for you,โ€ I whispered.

โ€œWell,ย donโ€™t,โ€ he snapped. โ€œNone of this is for me. Not any of it. I need you, and you abandoned me. Just go. Get out.โ€

I wanted to climb into his lap. Tell him how much I missed him and that I wouldnโ€™t leave him again. I wanted to make love to him and never be away from him ever again in my lifeโ€”and clean his fucking apartment.

But instead, I just stood there. โ€œNo. Iโ€™m not leaving. We need to talk about whatโ€™s happening at the hospital.โ€

He glared up at me. โ€œThereโ€™s only one thing I want to talk about. I want to talk about how you and I can be in love with each other and you wonโ€™t be with me. Or how you can stand not seeing me or speaking to me for weeks. Thatโ€™s what I want to talk about, Kristen.โ€

My chin quivered. I turned and went to the kitchen and grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. I started tossing take-out containers and beer bottles.

I spoke over my shoulder. โ€œGet up. Go take a shower. Shave. Or donโ€™t if thatโ€™s the look youโ€™re going for. But I need you to get your shit together.โ€

My hands were shaking. I wasnโ€™t feeling well. Iโ€™d been light-headed and slightly overheated since I went to Joshโ€™s fire station looking for him. But I focused on my task, shoving trash into my bag. โ€œIf Brandon is going to be able to donate his organs, he needs to come off life support within the next few days. His parents wonโ€™t do it, and Sloan doesnโ€™t get a say. You need to

go talk to them.โ€

Hands came up under my elbows, and his touch radiated through me. โ€œKristen, stop.โ€

I spun on him. โ€œFuck you, Josh! You need help, and I need to help you!โ€

And then as fast as the anger surged, the sorrow took over. The chains on my mood swing snapped, and feelings broke through my walls like water breaching a crevice in a dam. I began to cry. I didnโ€™t know what was wrong with me. The strength that drove me through my days just wasnโ€™t available to me when it came to Josh.

I dropped the trash bag at his feet and put my hands over my face and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I completely lost it.

โ€œI canโ€™t stop cleaning and I have a monster inside my brain and I miss you and Sloan is falling apart and his parents wonโ€™t take him off life support, so his organs are rotting. I canโ€™t get all the lines right on the carpet with the vacuum and Stuntman is in a kennel and I havenโ€™t seen him in days, and I just need you to let me clean this fucking apartment!โ€

Iโ€™m not sure how much of it he heard, if any. I was crying so hard I could barely understand myself. He just held me and caressed my hair, and for the first time in weeks the velociraptor hunted other prey.

Josh made me weak. Or strong. It was hard to tell anymore what I was without my coping mechanism. At least when I rode the beast, I got shit done. And now I was nothing but an emotional mess.

But at least the mess was mine.

Why did he have this effect on me? He had this way of waking up dormant parts of my soul. He ripped through me and let everything in with him like a storm surge.

I took on water.

And at the same time, something told me if I let him, heโ€™d keep me afloat. He wouldnโ€™t let me sink. Iโ€™d never felt this vulnerable and safe with anyone.

I felt hot and shaky. I gasped and clutched his shirt until the crying spasms stopped. He held me so tight my knees could have given out and I wouldnโ€™t have fallen an inch.

โ€œI canโ€™t be the only one who has their shit together,โ€ I whispered.

His chest rumbled as he spoke. โ€œIt doesnโ€™tย lookย like you have your shit togetherโ€ฆโ€

I snorted. โ€œJosh, please.โ€ I looked up at him, my hands trembling on his collarbone. โ€œI need you to insert yourself here. Go talk to his parents. Theyโ€™ll listen to you.โ€

He looked at me like seeing me cry was agony. The longing on his face was razor blades to my heart. His sad eyes, the set of his mouth, his knit brows.

He loved me almost as much as I loved him, and I knew I was hurting him. I knew he thought I was enough. But Iย wasnโ€™tย enough. How could one of me be any kind of substitute for the half dozen kids heโ€™d always wanted? It just couldnโ€™t. The math didnโ€™t work. The logic wasnโ€™t sound.

He wiped a tear off my cheek with his thumb. โ€œOkay,โ€ he whispered. โ€œIโ€™ll go. Just, sit down or something. Stop cleaning.โ€ He dipped his head to catch my eyes. โ€œAre you okay? Youโ€™re shaking.โ€

He put a hand over mine to still the tremor against his chest, and the closeness of him made me whole for the first time in weeks.

โ€œIโ€™m fine,โ€ I said, swallowing. โ€œJust hurry, okay?โ€

He looked at me for a long moment, like he was trying to memorize my face or steal an extra second to hold me. Then he turned for the bathroom.

When he walked away from me, the absence of his body pressed into mine felt like Iโ€™d lost my clothes and I stood naked and exposed to the elements.

I missed him. No amount of time lessened it. It made it worse. My heart was a neglected building, and every day I weathered a fierce storm that dripped through my roof, flooded my floors, and broke my windows, and the disrepair just made me weaker and closer to collapse.

The water turned on in the bathroom and I looked around the apartment, my compulsion raging back with a fury now that he was gone.

At least I could do this for him. I could take care of his space, give it order. Wash his clothes and his blankets. Make things smell clean, turn his home into someplace he wanted to be. Do this thing that he obviously couldnโ€™t do for himself at the moment.

I blitzed the place. I stripped the bed, threw open the windows. I was washing dishes when the dizziness started.

Why are my lips tingling?

I pressed a shaking finger to my mouth. And then my vision began to blurโ€ฆ

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